


TO DO list

by softgrungeprophet



Category: FF (Comics), Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Canon Related, Flirting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Roommates, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29350266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: can you believe i started this fic in 2019 and then didn't touch it for like a year and a half until now... and now it's finally complete! wild.Inspired by and set roughly around/during FF vol 1 issue #17, "The Roommate Experiment."also I don't actually know what peter's apartment building was like. his job at horizon seemed to pay pretty decently but who knows, in new york. so I just made it the same height as the baxter building. lol.I THINK T+ is an acceptable rating for this since there's nothing explicit, only allusions but if I need to change it to M I can.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Johnny Storm
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	TO DO list

Perhaps—perhaps!—it had just been a terrible fluke of a three week stint sharing a home.

Mishaps upon mishaps.

After all, even stubborn Peter Parker had to admit, it was kind of nice having someone like Johnny around the house.

"Someone like Johnny" meaning "Someone lonely with nothing but free time on his hands, and a tendency toward the domestic." Who would have thought? Johnny Storm, the domestic type. Cooking meals, setting and serving the table, getting the mail, incinerating the trash and nearly melting the garbage can—okay, maybe not that last one. Dusting... sweeping... making coffee...

Swanning around in nothing but an apron and his underpants.

Sometimes just the apron.

"I don't do dishes, or mop, or scrub toilets." Counted on his fingers. "Or unclog shower drains, unless it's your birthday." Johnny shed his apron, draping it over the back of a chair and exposing pretty much all of his skin except whatever was covered by the scant profile of his silk briefs. "Basically, anything wet and dirty, I'm not into. But if you want me to vacuum, change your oil, iron your shirts, blow you, change your _tires_ , give you a back massage—"

"Wait, wait, wait—" Peter held a hand up, half into his work blazer. "Back up, what was that middle thing?"

Johnny raised an eyebrow, a twinkle in his eye. "Blow-dry your hair?"

Peter rolled his eyes with a quiet, "Whatever," and shrugged his jacket on. "Have you seen my scarf?"

"Oh, that hideous old thing? I think I burned it."

TO DO List:

  * Have Johnny Storm drawn and quartered
  * Do unspeakable things to his corpse



Peter slammed the front door behind him, fuming, scarf-less, belatedly realizing he'd forgotten his lunch, but he was already halfway down the stairs and not about to go back at risk of just... reflexively punching Johnny's face in.

Deep breaths.

It was an ugly scarf, that was true.

But his aunt had made it for him!

But, he supposed, she could make him a new one if he really wanted, just as full of love and charming ugliness.

"God, if you're listening, I hope you know I'm at the end of my rope." Peter pointed accusingly at the ceiling as he made his way down multiple flights of stairs. "The end! Of my rope!"

On he went anyway.

***

It was 2 pm, one meeting down the hole and another coming up in five minutes, and Peter felt about ready to throttle the next person who walked into his office.

Naturally, a playful little knock ripped right through his thoughts, and who opened his door a peek but... of course. Johnny Storm.

Peter leveled a death glare worthy of Doctor Doom on Johnny, silent and heavy-browed. Jaw threatening to crack under the force with which he clenched it.

"Heya, Mr. Scientist." Johnny shut the door very carefully behind him, Peter's lunchbox in one hand, and… his ugly, handmade scarf in the other. "You forgot this and I noticed it on the counter, and I know how _hangry_ you get—"

"Johnny."

Johnny gave him a guileless smile, a little questioning quirk to his eyebrows. His hair all perfect and swoopy, his merino turtleneck soft and lavender and clingy... "Yes?"

"Just shut up and give me my lunch."

With a scoff, Johnny swept over, tossing Peter's lunch down on his desk. "Bossy." He leaned against the sturdy wood, crossing his arms. "The least you could do is thank me. I was _joking_ about the scarf." He dangled it over the desk, and let it slip from his hand in a soft pile. "I didn't think you'd be so mad."

The least Peter could do was all but tear the zipper off his lunchbox and shove his admittedly soggy tomato-rye sandwich into his mouth with a grumbled, "Fakyou."

With a face somewhere between amused and disgusted, Johnny pushed away from Peter's desk. "I don't know if that was a 'thank you' or a 'fuck you,' but you're _welcome_." He lingered by the door a moment, hand on the knob, back to Peter.

He looked over his shoulder, almost shy, like he wanted to say something. But he shook his head and pulled the door open. Gone, just like that, caramel-tan loafers tapping on the linoleum.

Peter tried not to think about the way Johnny's dark gray chinos accentuated his ass. Or the way that sweater—which definitely didn't have anything underneath—clung to his waist. No, he definitely wasn't thinking about that with two minutes to go before today's presentation.

Just devouring his lunch as fast as possible, absolutely not thinking about the graceful way Johnny walked.

Boy, Peter really needed to kick him out.

***

It had been a long, frustrating day doing things he hated with absolutely no science or anything remotely interesting or fulfilling. Peter shouldered the front door open with a sigh. Just dropped his empty lunchbox on the floor, followed by his jacket and scarf, kicking the door closed as he went. Off with his tie, tossing that over the back of a chair. Down his shirt one button at a time on his way to his bedroom, past the office they'd converted into a room for Johnny.

Everything on the floor, leaving a trail of shed clothing behind him like some kind of polyester-based snail.

Peter flopped facedown onto his bed, with his slacks around his ankles and his socks still on.

He groaned.

So much work. So tired.

Still, he made the Herculean effort of kicking his pants off, and used his toes to get his socks off without moving any other part of his body.

Just lay there.

After a few minutes, his senses picked up quiet movement, and he turned his head to glare at the doorway.

Johnny—wearing only a half-open silk robe, and with his arms full of Peter's shed clothes—leaned on the doorframe. "Hey." He bumped his head against the wood. "Pizza's gonna be here soon. I got the kind with all the vegetables, no meat." He smiled. "You still have to go out tonight, right?"

Peter groaned again. "Don't remind me." He didn't deign to comment on the ' _all vegetables_ ' part. Death. Death upon this house.

With a quiet laugh, Johnny came into the bedroom, dumping Peter's clothes on the floor in a pile before perching on the arm of the chair near the bedside table. "I may have pulled some strings."

"Hm?" Peter frowned, face all scrunched up.

"Other heroes, you know?" Johnny slipped off the arm, into the chair itself, revealing far too much thigh for Peter's addled brain as he kicked up his legs. "So you can stay home tonight and get some rest. You've been working really hard, lately, and I thought you deserved a break." He leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling as he lounged there. "Just for a night."

Peter didn't know what to say, particularly because he didn't want to argue with Johnny, which would definitely happen if he told Johnny he was absolutely not going to take the night off, so he said, "You'd better be wearing underwear."

Johnny smirked, dancing his hand down his side to pull slowly at the hem of his robe. Up, a little... bare hip... just a hint of his waist. "Nope..." He winked.

"Awful." Peter buried his face in the blankets, muffling his voice. "You're awful."

"Sorry." Johnny rustled slightly. "Hypocrite."

Peter put forth the great effort to raise his arm and flip Johnny the middle finger. He _always_ wore underwear, thank-you-very-much. Special, unflattering dancers' underwear, even, made specifically for use under skin-tight, stretchy fabric.

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, I'll get it."

Just like that, in a breeze, Johnny was gone. Left behind the faint smell of smoke, incense and roses.

Peter sighed.

TO DO List:

  * Nap
  * Delay eviction and/or murder of Johnny Storm to a later date
  * Nap some more



***

Temporary warm fuzzy feelings aside, Peter had not, in fact, stayed home like Johnny told him to. In what universe would Peter ever do anything Johnny told him to do?

He climbed back in through his bedroom window around two in the morning, shuttering the blinds and immediately stripping out of his Spider-Man costume in the dark. He left it there on the floor and padded silently to the bathroom to brush his teeth, also in the dark.

Splashed his face with warm water, and finally... finally ventured to bed.

He pulled his blankets up to his nose and closed his eyes and hoped tonight would be a night where he fell asleep fast, rather than lying awake in bed for three hours thinking all his thoughts at once and then getting up thirty minutes later to start his day.

Exhaustion proved the enemy of neurosis, and he found himself drifting, until...

Something pulled him out of his almost-sleep, jerking slightly as his body confused itself.

He glowered at the ceiling.

A tiny, soft noise pricked his ear.

Oh, great. Peter slapped his hand over his forehead with a sigh.

If he just ignored it—

No, that was definitely Johnny, making the kind of sweet, gasping sound that meant only one thing—and that sent a flood of heat right down to Peter's nether regions. Definitely normal. Totally reasonable and regular to get turned on by your best friend-and-roommate masturbating a stone's throw down the hallway.

Peter dug the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw fireworks.

Not that it really made his hearing any less acute.

At least he wasn't Daredevil.

Peter sighed.

Johnny definitely moaned slightly, in the other room, most likely unaware that Peter was even awake—hell, he was stupid enough he might not have even realized Peter had come _home_ , even after Peter clunked around in the bathroom getting ready for bed.

There was something needy in his voice, Peter noted—Oh, yeah, totally cool, time to analyze the sounds Johnny made while he touched himself in the dead of night. Nope, Peter had to put a stop to this right away—

"HEY!"

He got a startled yelp in response.

"Some of us are trying to _sleep_!"

Johnny's door slammed, and then... silence.

Blessed silence.

Peter definitely had a boner.

And his mind drifted toward Johnny even though he'd fallen quiet—Peter couldn't help but wonder if he was still going, just quietly. The rooms weren't soundproof by any means, but with Johnny's door closed, and if he were trying to be less noisy, he might still be in there. Tousled and flushed, running his hands over presumably soft, smooth skin...

"Peter Benjamin Parker, get your dirty mind out of the gutter." Peter huffed and rolled over. "Sicko."

God, but he was horny now.

Just a quick one...

Peter kicked his blankets off and shoved his underwear down.

***

"Good moooorning~" Johnny's voice was sing-song and bright, _far_ too early.

Clearly last night was _not_ going to be a topic of discussion—not if Johnny had any say and _certainly_ not if Peter had any.

Peter glared at him as he shuffled over to the coffee maker. No matter how long he'd been waking up at 5 am, he still hated it. Didn't matter whether he was teaching or lab assisting, or what... Though science and teaching were at least _fulfilling_ , both emotionally and intellectually. Better than mindless paperwork—and he did _plenty_ more of that than he would have liked.

"Why are you so... _awake_?" Peter grumbled, grabbing his mug and sitting with a huff at the dining table.

Johnny preened a little, somehow proud of his morning bounciness, and crossed his legs. "Well, you know me, always alert." He gave his own coffee a quick puff of heat and sipped at it. "Also, I catnap throughout the day."

Ah, of course. If only Peter could do that between his back-to-back presentations, research papers, Spider-Man duties, lab check-ins, dinners with Aunt May and Jameson, coffee dates with the gang, so on, and so on ad infinitum...

Peter sighed and leaned his forehead against the table. "No fair."

"You say that about everything." Johnny picked at his toast. (Tastefully burnt, of course.) "Jealousy! It's a core part of your personality after 'grumpy' and 'annoying.'"

Peter scoffed.

Not that Johnny was _wrong_...

Sitting there half-naked.

"Can you put a shirt on, please?"

Johnny glanced up from his lean breakfast, tilting his head. He grinned. "What," He leaned his chin on his hands, elbows propped up against the tabletop. "Am I distracting you?"

 _Yes_.

"No, it's impolite." Peter sniffed. "Were you raised by the Hulk?"

Johnny snorted and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms up over his head with a whine. "I don't wanna." He bit his grin into something a little more teasing, eyes bright, lounging with his arms still up behind his head. Pale neck exposed... smooth chest...

 _Good God, Peter Parker, stop looking_. Peter focused his attention on the newspaper already carefully laid out on the table for him.

"Oh, great." He had his work cut out for him today. "A bunch of giant mutated rats are coming out of the sewers."

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Rodents of unusual size?"

One finger up, as Peter sipped his coffee.

"Clearly they do exist." He cleared his throat. "And we should get going if I wanna handle this and get to work on time."

Johnny slid down in his chair with a pout, sticking his legs out under the table. "I was gonna work on my car..."

Halfway down the hall, headed to his room, Peter scowled over his shoulder. "Power." He held up one finger. "Responsibility." Middle finger. "Put some pants on and let's go."

Johnny sighed but he followed after Peter. As if he would have been content to stay behind, even pretending at laziness.

***

TO DO List:

  * Get tested for rabies
  * And maybe the bubonic plague, for good measure



"Hold _still_..." Johnny tutted, dabbing at Peter's shoulder with a rag and some disinfectant. "You weren't supposed to _reenact_ the rat scene..."

Peter hissed, nose wrinkling at the sting. "Well maybe—" He grimaced as Johnny dipped the rag in water and pressed it to his wound. "Maybe if _you_ hadn't gotten in my way—"

Johnny pressed a little more firmly on Peter's wound.

Peter winced. "Easy, easy..."

"Gently?" Johnny's eyes crinkled with a smile, but he _did_ gentle his ministrations even as Peter rolled his eyes—he pulled the damp cloth away after a moment to inspect the gradually healing bite marks in Peter's shoulder. "You know your healing factor better than I do, so I don't know how long this will take to fix itself, but let me go grab some bandages anyway."

He rose to his feet with a slight waft of butane and God only knew what else from the rats and the sewers—

Enough to make Peter pull a face and mutter, "You reek."

Disappearing down the hallway, his white Fantastic Four uniform shimmering slightly, Johnny shouted, "You're no spring daisy either!"

 _Fair_.

Actually, with that in mind...

"Hey, actually, Johnny," Peter hauled himself to his feet and peeled his torn spider-tights off, leaving his tattered Spidey suit and thankfully intact dance belt on the floor in the kitchen (brightest lights) on his way down the hall.

"Ix-nay on those bandages; I'm gonna take a shower real quick, so don't worry about it!"

"Right," Johnny came out of the bathroom with his arms full of gauze and bandages. "Well, it's too late for—" He trailed off, eyes drifting downward and eyebrows shooting up. " _Oh_."

They both stood frozen, awkward, just for a moment, Johnny's eyes very clearly pointed at Peter's junk. Just out in the air. Free.

_Wow, Peter. Great job using that brain of yours. Modesty abounds. Who's impolite now?_

"Uhh..."

Peter suddenly moved—jostling past Johnny into the bathroom and slamming the door shut.

He caught Johnny's embarrassed, bubbly laugh through the door, and turned on the shower to drown out whatever crass, flirtatious, off-color or otherwise obscene comment he had coming. He didn't need to hear it. He'd already dug himself into a pit of mortification twelve feet deep, and he didn't need Johnny to make everything that much weirder, because Peter did a well enough job of that on his own, thank you _very_ much.

Wasn't like they'd never seen each other naked before, anyway.

And yet...

When Peter finished his shower, he made sure to wrap a towel _very_ firmly around his waist before leaving the bathroom to retrieve some underwear and a pair of slacks. He shimmied those on and found Johnny waiting in the kitchen with a lapful of medical supplies, playing on his phone.

Peter cleared his throat.

Johnny jumped a little, nearly dropping his phone with a yelp—He made a face, somewhere between a smile and a grimace, faintly pink. "Don't _startle_ me like that."

"Uh-huh. No excuses, Mr. 'I feel heat signatures.'" Peter flopped himself down in the chair he'd been sitting in earlier, relocated from the dining area, and said, "Wrap me up, embalmer."

With a wrinkle of his nose, almost cute— _no, Peter, not cute. Johnny: never cute. Only obnoxious_ —Johnny resumed tending to Peter's cleaned wound.

It had been a while since anyone had done this for Peter... Maybe Mary Jane, but... no, that felt so... fuzzy. He just couldn't be sure, the way those memories swam. They were old and bittersweet. But Johnny was right there, in the immediate present, fingers precise and methodical with the grace of a well-practiced craftsman.

A few brief moments, and...

"Done!" Johnny gave Peter a little tap on the shoulder. "All better."

Peter reached over to mess up Johnny's hair, and Johnny swatted at him.

But Peter said, "Hey, thanks." and leaned back in the chair. "You're pretty good at that."

Johnny shrugged. He smiled, though. Just a little bit. "Well, we can't have you getting infected, or something gross like that." He laughed under his breath. "You might turn into a rat."

"Boy, am I glad that's not gonna happen." Peter clapped Johnny on the shoulder as he stood. "Looks like you've saved all of NYC from their next Ninja Turtle villain."

An unflattering snort from Johnny.

Peter smiled.

***

The little white shorts—no, Peter couldn't think about those.

Health chic; iridescent red-green-orange-blue running shoes over whiter-than-white socks with tiny white shorts, and a simple, soft baby blue velour hoodie. No doubt unnecessary, only there for the fashion. Peter was, frankly, astonished that the shorts _didn't_ have "Juicy" bedazzled across the ass. Just plain white fabric and a hidden zip pocket at the waistband.

Johnny stood talking on his phone in the middle of the living room; long, smooth legs on display and those shorts clinging to his skin so close Peter might have accused them of being translucent if he didn’t know any better.

At least Peter had the decency to wear low-profile leggings on the rare occasion he decided to get some exercise _as_ _Peter_ and not as Spider-Man.

Emphasis on the "rare."

Such as today.

Peter sauntered over to the front door, pointedly ignoring Johnny stretching with one leg up on the arm of the couch as he rambled on the phone with Wyatt. A little stab of jealousy—which had no right to be there, thank you very much, no right at all—soured his mouth and he shoved it down to strap his sneakers on.

And yes, maybe he did wear sneakers with velcro at age 30. Maybe the quick-change lifestyle necessitated easy footwear. Maybe he had also started exclusively wearing dress shirts with hidden snaps on recommendation from Matt Murdock, after fifteen years of popping buttons and tearing seams.

"You know, Peter, one of these days you really oughta learn how to tie your shoes." Johnny zipped his phone into one of the pockets on his hoodie, sitting on the arm of the couch and crossing his ankles almost daintily.

Peter glared at Johnny. "I know how to tie my shoes!" He straightened his leggings. "It's just easier."

Johnny grinned. "Touchy." 

Peter rolled his eyes.

He let Johnny overtake him down the hall, and down the stairs—

And no, he wasn't admiring the view.

 _Much_.

They made it down all thirty-five paired flights of stairs without either one breaking a sweat, Peter taking his sweet time as Johnny disappeared down the zig-zagging dog's legs of concrete steps. He found Johnny bouncing on the balls of his feet in the lobby, pleasantly flushed and just starting to get into it.

To be fair, going down stairs wasn't too much of a workout. (Peter himself could have easily run a thousand steps down _and_ up, no problem, but he was also mildly radioactive, so...)

"Come oooon, slowpoke!" Johnny bounced backwards, grinning, at least a few other residents eyeing him curiously but ultimately minding their own business.

Peter waved him off, but he hurried his pace and jogged out of the building after Johnny.

Again, definitely not admiring Johnny's backside, particularly now that it was not actively disappearing from view. _Deeeefinitely_ not.

Of course, Johnny knew his ass looked great—that was probably one of the only reasons they did this instead of just using the treadmills in the company gym. That and the fresh air... and the other beautiful joggers out during lunch.

It gave him an excuse to stop and stretch in full view of at least twenty people, a good half of whom _always_ came to the realization—"That's the Human Torch!" ("And who's with him? Isn't he that photographer? No, he's much more handsome.")

Peter reached his arms up over his head with a resigned sigh, as Johnny bent over to touch his toes.

"Attention whore." Peter was ever-so-glad he always wore his dance belt to run in. With his high-waisted exercise tights and his breathable shirt. Sure, he looked like an 80s workout video, but at least no one could see his… interest.

Johnny shot a wink between his leg before straightening up. "Don't pretend you don't love it." He wiggled his butt.

Peter rolled his eyes.

Couldn't really protest, though. Johnny wasn't the only one who liked to flirt with passersby, after all, and... okay, maybe Peter hadn't actually been feeling up to hitting on women he didn't know, lately, and maybe he got a little jealous whenever someone made bambi-eyes at Johnny, but he told himself—no, just looking out for a friend whose rollercoaster of bad relationships concerned him. That was all. (Totally not hypocritical.)

Peter interrupted whatever vapid conversation Johnny was having to plaster himself against Johnny's back, and wrap his arms around him possessively, resting his chin on Johnny's shoulder. He smiled at the pretty brunette Johnny was talking to, and smiled at her dog too, and squeezed Johnny slightly.

Again, thank every god in existence for dance belts, or Johnny might have felt something there.

Whatever words Johnny had been saying dried up on his tongue, as the woman awkwardly waved goodbye and let her dog drag her off down the sidewalk.

"I, uh—" Johnny stuttered out a, "H—hi?"

Not so confident, now.

Peter extricated himself from Johnny with a smirk, stepping away. "Just making sure you weren't about to flame on."

"F—" Johnny glared at him. "Fuck you!"

"Kidding." Peter held his hands up to pacify Johnny. "Just impulse. She gave me weird vibes."

A complete and utter fabrication—a bold-faced lie to cover up his completely unreasonable jealousy.

Johnny crossed his arms, still pouting slightly, but he shrugged and mumbled, "Whatever, I could have gotten a date with her."

With a snort, Peter replied, "Yes, because in the months we've lived together you've definitely hooked up with tons of hot babes—oh, wait, you _haven't_?"

"I could!" Johnny planted his hands on his hips, all huffy and pink. "Maybe I just don't _want_ to! I could call MJ!"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

Johnny narrowed his eyes, likely disappointed Peter hadn't risen to that very obvious bait (another time he might have), but turned away. Prideful, offended, et cetera.

The extent to which Peter desperately wanted to jump his bones in that moment—uncharted.

"Hey, let's head back."

***

Johnny made it up approximately half the flights of the apartment complex before slumping against a wall, breathing hard. He held out a hand and puffed, "I need a break."

Peter laughed. "What, you tired already?" He leaned his shoulder against the wall, as Johnny slid down to sit on the ground. "350 steps too many for you?"

Johnny brandished his middle fingers at Peter.

"Fuck yooou."

"You keep saying that, but I don't think you mean it." Peter wiggled his eyebrows.

Johnny unzipped his hoodie as he rolled his eyes, though sweat and cooling weren't really something he had to deal with. Fashion, though—he wore a clingy hot pink tank top under his sweatshirt, chaotically patterned with white lipstick kisses and black hearts, and probably just shy of being a size too small. (Just enough to ride up and reveal a sliver of pale stomach.)

Quite the statement.

"Alright," Peter pretended he wasn't ogling. "If you wanna take the elevator and meet me upstairs, be my guest." Peter hopped up a step. "I'll be in the shower."

Johnny waved him off, not even conjuring up a rude rebuttal. Just a dramatic, breathless, "Go on, gloat. You super-stamina freak."

As if Johnny himself couldn't _fly_.

"I'm gloating!" Peter backed up the stairs—turned tail and took them three at a time.

He took the brief moment of quiet back in the apartment to unwind, just standing there in his underwear in the middle of his bedroom, heaving out a great full-body sigh. And this time—this time!—he waited until he made it to the bathroom _before_ stripping that last bit of fabric off, grimacing as the air cooled the sweat around his hips.

TO DO List:

  * Laundry, most definitely.
  * Gloat some more



But first, a cold shower. Bracing, raising goosebumps up his arms.

He shivered slightly under the freezing water, but relished the feeling no less.

In the other room, he could just hear the apartment door open as Johnny finally made it in.

"Slowpoke..." Peter murmured to himself.

He could just imagine Johnny, a little red still, slightly disheveled, but miraculously immaculate—curse him and his no sweating. No doubt headed straight for the kitchen. Yup, Peter's ears picked up the telltale sound of the fridge opening. Johnny probably leaning against it as he bent over to peer inside.

Peter took a deep breath and shut off the shower.

***

One of those long days at work… A thousand hours (or so it seemed), and all the bullshit Peter hated so much. Filing patent applications, filling out forms to renew this and that, insisting that no, he really _didn't_ need a custodian to come into his lab, actually, he could clean it himself and would prefer not to be disturbed.

But now… now he could _relax_.

At least for a few minutes before he went out for his _other_ job, swinging between the skyscrapers of New York City. 

A few… blessed… minutes…

Peter woke face-down on the couch.

He must have fallen asleep.

He could hear Johnny humming in the kitchen, sautéing something on the stove with the radio on not-too-loud. A break to chop something, then the hiss of hot oil and steam. Peter sighed, wilting back into the cushions. Unwilling to move just yet, and anyway he was still exhausted… But in a few minutes he'd get up.

Definitely.

He fell asleep again.

 _This_ time he woke up to Johnny shaking him gently, holding a plate of fried rice in his other hand.

"Hey, wake up, asshole." Johnny straightened up, as Peter pushed himself blearily upright. "I slaved over a hot stove for you."

Peter snorted, and reached for the plate. Johnny let him have it, and sat on the coffee table, crossing his legs.

Goddammit.

"I told you a million times—"

Johnny rolled his eyes, flipping his hair out of his eyes as he broke in with, "Don't put your butt where people eat, blah blah blah." He stood and relocated to the couch beside Peter. "It's unsanitary, I _know_. Jeez."

Peter grumbled, and shoved his food into his mouth.

It was good, as always.

Somehow that only served to irritate him further.

"Sooooo..." The tone in Johnny's voice, after a few seconds of clearly trying very hard not to interrupt, did not lighten Peter's mood. "I was wondering..."

Oh, boy.

"I just think..."

Peter sighed. "Out with it."

Johnny frowned. "Never mind, it's stupid."

One of these days…

"For the—" Peter took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "Torchie. I'm your best friend and I love you, you know this. So spit it out."

For a moment, Johnny chewed on his lip, visibly uncertain and emanating warmth in a radius that told Peter he wasn't keeping his powers quite so in-check. Too distracted by whatever had him uncertain, to the point of his ears being tipped with pink.

But finally… Johnny said, "On Sunday…" He put a hand to his cheek and for a moment looked just like his sister. "There's this little, well, i-it's a get-together, I guess, not a big… You know. Not a big deal." He hesitated. "I'm supposed to bring a date and I just thought maybe… you… could do it?"

"Why don't you ask MJ?" A dig? Yes, but Peter could never resist a dig, especially a reciprocal one.

Johnny rolled his eyes.

"No?" Peter gestured upward with his fork. "And how about Wyatt, huh?"

Something Peter couldn't quite place flitted across Johnny's face. Somewhere between pained and embarrassed, so Peter said, "Fine, fine."

Before Johnny could get his hopes up too high—

"I'll try to fit it in, just because it's you." Not a lie. "But no guarantees I won't leave after five minutes, _and_ —" He barreled onward before Johnny could open his mouth to interrupt, as it looked like he so wanted to do. "I'm not dressing _any_ nicer than I would any other time."

Johnny rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful but sighed, "Okay, square."

Nonetheless, try as he might to hide it, Peter could see the spark of relief in his eyes—a glimmer of something sweet and pleasant, hidden behind the worried pink of his mouth.

Peter reached out and gave his shoulder a solid squeeze.

***

"You're kidding me."

Johnny glowered at him. "Why would I be kidding?" He gestured at the door, clearly ready to go as Peter took his sweet time tying his brown leather shoes. "I told you a thousand times, it's a murder mystery dinner party—what am I supposed to do? Wear jeans? As if." He almost scoffed and for half a second Peter could picture him in some teen movie, talking to some loser love interest.

"So wear a suit!" Peter gesticulated vaguely at Johnny. "Like a gentleman duke or something!"

Johnny made a face. "I'm the _magician's assistant_." He gestured to his fishnet-clad legs. "And you're the detective, so get your stupid ugly trench coat and give it to me so I don't flash half of Manhattan walking to the car."

" _Ugh_." Peter grabbed his coat and threw it at Johnny, only a little satisfied by the inelegant squawk he got in return.

Never should have said yes in the first place. Too late now, though, and dinner time to boot.

"They'd better have food."

Johnny didn't deign to answer as he put on Peter's coat.

And in spite of it all… Peter held the door open for him.

Johnny only flushed a little, as he walked past in a huff, adjusting his bunny-ear headband—his pumps clacked loudly on the hallway tiles.

Naturally, Johnny insisted on driving.

This meant that Peter wound up with Johnny's shiny black pumps in his lap, discarded to drive barefoot, as they sat in traffic. The music was low, and something even Peter could appreciate, being from at least fifty years ago. Johnny tapped his gloved hands impatiently on the wheel, staring half-focused out through the windshield, and Peter tried staunchly to ignore how much of his legs were on display under only the thin covering of fishnet pantyhose.

After what felt like hours but was actually only a surprisingly short ten minutes, the traffic began to trickle forward—someone honked behind them, and Johnny and Peter both stuck their arms out their respective windows to flip the bird. Almost beautiful, in their synchronization. Peter smiled to himself as the car inched forward.

"You know, this isn't so bad."

Johnny snorted. "I'd like to see you say that behind the wheel."

"Point taken." Peter let his arm dangle out the open window. "I still don't hate this."

Johnny spared him a disbelieving glance, and Peter tried his best for charming.

It seemed to work, judging by the way Johnny's expression pinched—he narrowed his eyes at Peter, trying heroically to glare, but he couldn't keep a smile from twisting his mouth.

"You're a monster." Johnny laughed.

"So long as I'm stuck here with you." Peter gazed out over the bridge, as a light breeze ruffled his hair from outside. The sea of red lights was almost mesmerizing, and the sky an interesting shade of copper. He would have liked to be out there, high in the sky, swinging from building to building. But, at the same time… "Might as well look on the bright side."

For a moment Johnny didn't answer, merging very slowly into what barely constituted as an opening in the lane beside them, in an almost definitely illegal move—not that Peter knew much one way or the other. But then, "Oh yeah? And what's that?"

Peter lounged with his smuggest expression and said, "You, of course."

If his goal was to turn the Human Torch as red as a tomato, he'd succeeded. In the same moment as Johnny leaned on the horn and shouted, "Hey, fuck you too!" out the window.

Peter snickered.

Johnny shot him a look. "You can't just tell a guy he's the brightest thing going while he's trying to navigate Manhattan traffic, Pete."

"Why not?" Peter gestured toward the cars. "It's not like you're moving fast enough to _hit_ someone."

"I could!" Johnny slammed on the brakes and honked his horn once more. "I could hit someone at one whole mile per hour, maybe scratch their paintjob—Mother _fucker!_ "

Peter rolled his eyes but conceded, "Fine, fine. No more from me. Clearly I'm distracting you."

Johnny held his finger up. "I didn't say that."

"Oh?"

He grinned at Peter, a twinkle in his eye. "Keep sweet-talking me. I like it."

Ah, Johnny Storm and his ego.

They made it to the function no less than twenty minutes after it was supposed to start, Johnny flustered as he ran ahead—shedding Peter's overcoat and throwing it back at him. A shame about the coattails on his costume, obscuring the view. Peter bided his time, in no particular hurry. Draped his coat over his arm and finally sidled up alongside Johnny in the middle of his confused conversation with some kind of bouncer.

"What do you mean they—"

"You're late."

Johnny pursed his lips. "Yeah, I heard you the first time. So they just left?" He huffed, patting the lining of his coat for his phone. "I called ahead and they said they'd wait…" He peered at his phone as the bouncer looked on impassively. "I don't understand…"

Peter let himself rest his hand against the small of Johnny's back, leaning over to spy down at his phone. "I think you got stood up, flameboy."

"Wh—" Johnny bit back whatever he was about to say, bristling for a moment and then quieting, uncertain. Quietly, he mumbled, "You think so?"

With only a glance for the bouncer, Peter hummed. "I mean, I don't know why else—" A gentle shiver tingled up his spine and he spun, on high alert. Nothing immediately dangerous. Johnny made a curious noise beside him, and Peter just moved to shield him from—

"Fucking paparazzi? Really?" Peter sighed, the tension draining from his body, and behind him Johnny snorted inelegantly.

"Guess you're right." He shoved Peter aside and pointed straight at the most obvious of sneak photographers. "I've been photographed in worse!"

Peter groaned and pressed his face into his hand.

"Eat your heart out, New York!"

Peter grabbed Johnny around the waist and tossed him over his shoulder, ignoring his "Hey!" in favor of immediately leaving the venue in favor of someplace less crowded, where Johnny couldn't embarrass them both in public.

Johnny sagged in his arms with a sigh, fully aware that he couldn't get out of Peter's grip without making a scene or ruining his clothes—Peter smirked, ducked into an alley, and wasted no time in getting them up onto—

"Oh, rooftop dining. Classy." Johnny twisted to see around Peter.

Inwardly Peter despaired at his infamous luck, as someone exclaimed, "What on earth!"

Outwardly, he shot the diners a charming smile, said, "Nothing to see here, folks!" and let himself and Johnny tip backwards off the railing.

Someone shrieked—neither him nor Johnny, of course, accustomed to this kind of thing—and Peter shot a line to grapple them up to a much, much higher vantage point.

Finally, he set Johnny down—Johnny planted his hands on his hips and leveled Peter with an unimpressed stare, flipping a stray curl out of his eyes.

"…You're _welcome_?" Peter dropped to sit on the edge of the roof, and heaved a sigh.

"Ugh." Johnny sat beside him, and let his fishnet-clad legs dangle over the ledge, city lights reflecting in flashes off the glossy black of his pumps. "You suck."

Peter glared at him. " _I_ suck?" He gave Johnny a gentle shove. "I just saved you from public embarrassment!"

"You just put my ass on display for a bunch of rooftop diners!"

…Touché.

"That's beside the point." Peter ignored Johnny's offended protest, and added, "You would have done it on your own, anyway."

Johnny was quiet a moment, swinging his feet a little. Finally, he said, "It's different."

Peter frowned, and tilted his head to look at Johnny.

Johnny just shrugged and averted his eyes. Stared down at the lit-up windows below, illuminated softly by their glow. He'd put on eyeliner, Peter realized, just a little darkness around his eyes and lashes, and his cold blue eyes popped, reflecting almost gold in the night even flamed off. His mouth was stained a deep, muted red, in contrast to the emerald green of the silk at his waist, and right there… right then… He just looked so beautiful.

Forlorn and disappointed, yes. Emanating heat to a slightly uncomfortable extent, yes. But beautiful.

Peter threw caution to the wind and closed the space between them.

A sharp intake of breath and quick stiffening told him he'd made a mistake, and he drew back with a frown.

Johnny was very still, and Peter could practically hear his jaw creaking from how he clenched it. Deer in the headlights, a faint spark in his eyes—not gold, now. The dim, deep blue that preceded flames.

"I fucked up?" Peter heaved a breath, and his reflexes only gave him a moment's notice before Johnny was on top of him.

"Mmph—"

Peter flipped them so he was on top of Johnny, pressing him down into the rooftop. Johnny stared wide-eyed up at him, pupils black and eyes that deep flame-blue. Breathless, from nothing. Peter smirked, letting his forehead down to touch Johnny's, feeling his pulse under his fingertips where he had Johnny's wrists in his grasp.

"Get off."

Peter smirked. "Don't mind if I do."

Johnny shoved him—ineffectual, of course, but got the point across.

"Fine, fine—" Peter sat, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Get _off_ me."

Not joking. Fully serious business, his eyes aflame quite literally, and his hair smoldering at the tips with golden licks of fire.

Peter moved away entirely, hands still up a moment before he sat a foot away from Johnny.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, Johnny laying on his back with his legs halfway off the rooftop and his chest rising with each breath. Glowing faintly, barely visible in the darkness. His eyes bright spots, and his hair shimmering with heat.

Finally, Peter snapped, "What's your _problem_?"

Johnny kicked him—or tried to. Peter caught his ankle without even thinking about it. For a second, Johnny tugged, but when Peter didn't let go he just said, " _Nothing_."

" _Nothing?_ 'Nothing,' he says." Peter shook his head and released Johnny's ankle maybe a little more forcefully than necessary. "I don't understand you at all."

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us." Johnny crossed his arms over his chest, pulled his legs up, and looked away.

They both stewed in silence for what felt like ages, Peter listening to the sounds of the city distantly. Tracking the time from the movement of the stars, and the clockwork-esque motions of the people below. He felt… he didn't know what he felt. Guilty? For what? He hadn't done anything. Johnny had been hot and cold for months and Peter didn't understand what it was Johnny actually wanted. Didn't understand what he himself was meant to do.

Finally, quietly, Johnny muttered, "I wore green 'cause I know you like it."

One more to the list—not the TO DO list he'd long since forgotten about, but the list of things he didn't understand about Johnny Storm.

"Why." Peter didn't bother looking at him, focused instead on the window across the way where he could see someone's flat-screen playing the news. "What."

Silence.

He gave in, and looked.

Johnny just lay there, curled onto his side at some point, his back to Peter.

"I—" Johnny's voice came out quiet, and rough. "I don't know." He laughed just as softly. "I like it when you look at me."

"Johnny—"

"Sorry." The edges of Johnny's silhouette shimmered with flame, and he shifted a little as the flames wrapped around his body. "Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me."

Peter moved to stop him, but too late.

All he got was a handful of sparks.

He sighed.

***

Peter didn't bother to go home right away.

Not until four in the morning, after a night of swinging and working out his frustrations on mostly-undeserving purse snatchers and lamp posts alike.

The apartment was quiet, dark and cold. Empty. Either Johnny had decided to work out his troubles the same way Peter had, or he'd gone to the Baxter Building. Peter couldn't decide which was more likely, but he supposed Johnny was as much in his right to do either.

He closed his window and turned the thermostat up—central heating a luxury and a reminder both—before heading to the kitchen to raid the fridge.

Leftovers Johnny had made, two-day old takeout, a dozen cans of Jolt, and half again as many cans of Diet Coke.

Why Johnny insisted on diet…

Peter grabbed the takeout.

He fell asleep on the couch watching a documentary about string theory.

The sound of the door opening woke Peter around the time the sun had gotten high enough to slant directly through the windows and into his eyes. He shaded his face with a grumble, sitting as Johnny came in through the front. He was dressed in his white uniform, softening his silhouette. He didn't say anything, so Peter didn't either—left him to his whims, vaulting over the back of the couch to head to the bathroom.

When Peter came back Johnny was sitting in his vacated spot, knees drawn up under his chin. He glanced up at Peter briefly, unsmiling.

"Hey."

Peter flopped down beside him on the couch, jostling him a little.

Johnny shifted to accommodate him, and his body was a long line of warmth at Peter's side. Slowly, gauging the way Johnny responded—nervous swallow, wide black pupils—Peter draped his arm along the back of the couch, relaxing into the cushions, neither moving closer to Johnny nor offering any space between them.

"So." He eyed Johnny. "Talk to me."

Johnny took a deep breath and let it out slowly, deflating. He let his knees down, feet slipping to the floor, and sagged back against the couch cushions and Peter's arm. His hair was soft and he was warm as he said, "You're one of my closest friends. Maybe the closest."

"And?"

Johnny made a face, none-too-amused. "And… I don't wanna make things weird. Okay?"

"Okay," Peter jostled him a little closer. "So don't."

With a sigh, Johnny muttered, "I can't…"

Peter pulled him ever closer, closer. Practically into his lap. Repeated, "So don't."

Johnny ducked his head with a quiet laugh. Finally, a smile. "What—" His face crinkled a little bit, and he knocked his forehead against Peter's. "I don't—I don't know what I'm not doing anymore."

"Mm…" Peter let their noses brush, with some satisfaction when Johnny didn't pull away. "Who cares?"

" _I_ care." Johnny swatted at him. But his expression had lightened considerably since that smile, his whole demeanor following. "Jerk."

Peter spoke with their lips barely touching—"The biggest jerk you know."

This time, in the morning light, Johnny didn't run away.

He kissed Peter.

Peter let him stay on top, this time.

***

The fabric of Johnny's uniform, sleek and white, parted under Peter's fingertips to reveal a hidden zipper from the back of the neck. Somewhere between smart-cloth and smart tailoring, skintight but moving like silk when he pushed it off of Johnny' s shoulders. Down his arms and his waist. The seamster and science part of his brain fixated on the unstable material—the animal side focused on Johnny's smooth skin and the lingering smell of ozone and saltwater perfume.

Johnny was uncharacteristically quiet, but he didn't pull away. He initiated, even, guiding Peter's hands to the soft skin at his hips.

Under his breath, the words, "I trust you…"

Peter left Johnny's uniform to drape around his waist, and focused on kissing Johnny's neck, feeling his pulse under his lips.

It was both how he imagined it and entirely different, a flickering drumbeat, shivering heat.

Johnny twisted to kiss at Peter's ear, holding his hands tight at his hips. Again, "I trust you."

Implication…

"So don't fuck this up?" Peter nipped at Johnny's pulse and it jumped under his teeth.

Johnny tilted his head back with a breathless laugh, face turned up to the sunlight streaming through the windows. "Exactly."

"Tell me something—" Peter stood, taking Johnny with him. Johnny's legs locked tight around his waist. "What's with the hot and cold?" He carried Johnny over to the picture windows that formed the sliding door to the balcony. More of a penthouse porch, a thousand feet in the air.

"What do you mean?" Johnny held on tight.

Peter set him on the railing, fingers pressing into his thighs through the fabric still covering them.

"I mean…" He kissed Johnny a moment, firm but gentle. "Prancing around in no underwear, jokes about blowjobs, showing off your ass, and then—" He caught Johnny's lip between his teeth. Let it go. " _Get off_. _Don't make it weird_. What do you want from me?"

Johnny held his gaze, blue eyes the same color as the sky behind him.

Slowly, he let his arms slip from Peter's neck—trusted in his grip, reaching for his hands—and leaned back over the open air. Peter kept his eyes on Johnny's face, or his throat, as their joined hands formed a bridge. Dangling, precarious, unafraid of the heights. As much a part of the sky as the clouds. The muscles in Johnny's thighs tightened around Peter's waist, even with their arms spanning the space between them.

Johnny pulled himself up in one smooth movement and said, "I want you to love me."

He shoved Peter back and Peter let him, pulling away—Johnny stood on the balcony like a balance beam beneath his feet. He stepped out of his uniform and the sun gilded his body with light. A work of art even kicking his uniform onto the slate tiles of the balcony. Not, thankfully, into the open air.

"I want you to admire me." Johnny twined his arms above his head. The breeze at this height caught his hair, toying with it in curls of yellow-gold, tapering off into candle flames.

"I'm admiring." Peter reached for his ankles.

Johnny crouched down to kiss him.

"Tell me I'm beautiful."

Peter couldn't help but grin, a little incredulous. A little breathless. And of course—"You're beautiful."

Johnny slipped into his arms, feet on solid ground again, though for a moment he weighed less than air. But then his body settled against Peter, solid flesh and bone and blood pumping through his veins. He took Peter's hands, and kissed his palms, one and then the other.

Slowly, he sank to his knees.

***

As Johnny cooked—nude but for an apron reading "Kitchen Queen," Peter considered the state of his apartment.

To his mental TO DO list he added:

  * Vacuum
  * Groceries



He remembered not-so-distantly when he had, in a rage, included a variety of unspeakable acts on that list.

Justifiably so, in his opinion, even now as he leaned against the doorway and eyed Johnny at the stove.

Nonetheless, he could dash at least one of those acts from its fellows.

"Hey," He grinned, when Johnny looked over his shoulder. "How do you feel about French maid costumes?"

He dodged the fireball Johnny sent his way with a laugh, and it dissipated in the air before it could catch anything on fire.

TO DO list:

  * Stop by Party City



**Author's Note:**

> can you believe i started this fic in 2019 and then didn't touch it for like a year and a half until now... and now it's finally complete! wild.
> 
> Inspired by and set roughly around/during FF vol 1 issue #17, "The Roommate Experiment."
> 
> also I don't actually know what peter's apartment building was like. his job at horizon seemed to pay pretty decently but who knows, in new york. so I just made it the same height as the baxter building. lol. 
> 
> I THINK T+ is an acceptable rating for this since there's nothing explicit, only allusions but if I need to change it to M I can.


End file.
